


Finding the Way Home

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-10-07 11:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10359582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: A son thinks about his father





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Finding the Way Home

##  Finding the Way Home

##### Written by Lin   
Comments? You can forward them to: [yumafanfic@aol.com](mailto:yumafanfic@aol.com)

  * SPOILERS: None 
  * CONTENT WARNINGS: OC POV 
  * A son thinks about his father 
  * G [A] [1st] 



* * *

"John, you've worked hard for this. You should be very proud of yourself." Dr. Hewlett holds out a hand. I take it. "Congratulations, son. You have your whole life in front of you. I know you'll do just fine."

I watch him walk away. He disappears through the double doors bisecting the hall. I wish his words were true. Oh sure, I'm free to go, free to walk away. No one can keep me behind those double doors any longer, but I'm far from free.

I hoist my duffel over my shoulder and start walking away from those double doors. I keep my eyes on the floor in front of me. People come and go. They walk around me, cross in front of me. I don't look at them. I'm afraid to see their faces, what will be reflected in their eyes.

Walking down the front steps of the hospital is like stepping into another world. The smells and sounds change. The antiseptic atmosphere and hushed whispers are replaced with the rumble of traffic, chattering pedestrians, the scratch of dry leaves blowing across the parking lot. The sunlight strikes my eyes. I have to hold up a hand to shield them. It's been a while since I looked up to see white puffy clouds floating lazily through a blue sky. My world has been confined to institutional pink walls and white ceiling tiles for so long. The feeling of the light breeze against my bare arms is foreign somehow.

Two nurses walk past me, eyeing me suspiciously as I stand frozen at the foot of the stairs. Pushing myself into motion, I head across the parking lot to the public bus stop. There are others waiting. A man in a suit is talking to a tiny phone clamped against his face. A woman jostles a wailing baby in the crook of one arm while a chubby faced toddler clings to the other. An old man leaning on a cane stares out at the world through rheumy eyes. A young nurse fidgets with her handbag. She shoots little glances at me, gripping her bag tighter.

I wait. At last the bus arrives with an asthmatic wheeze. I stow my duffel and find a seat. It isn't too long before the bus hisses to a stop. I get off. The YMCA is a block over. I quickly walk the rest of the way and check in. They were expecting me. Before long I am sitting on a bunk in a dark room. I throw my duffel on an empty bed and lay down.

I must have dozed off because I wake with a jerk. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The bare walls, the dim light, the empty spirit of the room makes me wonder if I'm still at the hospital. I shake the sleep from my brain. I know where I am. Now if I only knew what to do with myself.

Dr. Hewlett said I had my whole life in front of me. He wasn't entirely accurate. A whole lot of my life lies wasted and rotting behind me. The stench of it gags me. Rolling out of the bunk, I pace the length of the room. I can't stay here indefinitely. But where to go? Dr. Hewlett had been so very helpful in providing the names and addresses of places that took in people like me, agencies to help me get on my feet. I need to get a job, find somewhere to live. I need to get on with my life, make a clean start. I need to get things back on track. I need . . . to go home.

No, it’s useless to even think about it. I'll never forget the look of horror on my mother’s face or the crushing disappointment that shone from my Father’s eyes that night. How many years has it been? It’s all a blur. I stormed out and never went back. When I was cold or hungry, I remembered my father’s eyes and I knew that I couldn't face him again. The thought of my mother’s tears was enough to keep me moving, one city after another. When distance didn't take the sting out of the memories, alcohol dulled it. Drugs made me forget the hurting. And I wasn't alone. There were others who wanted to have a good time. They weren't hard to find. A party was always going on somewhere. My new friends would take me, introduce me around, sell me something happy. But it never drove those haunting eyes from the back of my mind. So I lost myself in an ever shifting world that left me lying in my own bloody vomit in the floor of a public restroom.

How can I go back now? How can I look in their faces after throwing so many years again? They might be happy to see me, to know I'm alive. They might throw their arms around me and make all the right noises, but their eyes . . . their eyes would give them away. The disappointment would be there, worse then ever. This time it wouldn't be a stupid juvenile mistake that would have them shaking their heads. This time the disappointment wouldn't be for the actions of a son who had messed up, ignored their warnings, forgotten who his father was. This time the disappointment would be in me, the man I am, what I've made of myself. This time the disappointment would be lethal. No, I can't go back. 

The next morning finds me walking aimlessly down the city sidewalks. The list of agencies Dr. Hewlett gave me is crammed in the pocket of my jeans. I have plenty of time. What’s the rush? I wander into a little park. Old folks sit on benches talking quietly. Two women in brightly colored shorts jog by. A barking dog chases a squirrel up a tree. I take a seat on an empty bench. I try to soak in the peace, but it doesn't work. A solitary songbird does its best to extol the beauty of the day, but it's drowned out by the noise in my head.

So much is crying for my attention. My sister’s laughter. Our dog, Ruffles, barking excitedly as we step off the school bus. Snow ball fights. The smell of Mom’s chocolate chip cookies baking. Dad’s gruff voice reverberating through the house first thing in the morning. The roar of the crowd as we cheer our favorite team. The barely noticed scream of a jet overhead as we talk about the day’s events over pot roast. Christmas trees and Easter baskets, a red ten-speed, and a coveted pair of field binoculars. My father’s hand in my hair, my mother’s kiss on my cheek.

Restless, I get up. I follow the jogging trail that edges the duck pond. The fact that I'm walking in circles doesn't escape my notice. The symbolism in that act is fitting. My feet move automatically as I try to sort out the thoughts crowding my head. Time passes. I don't have a watch, but my stomach is telling me it’s past lunch. With a sigh, I head out of the park. I can scrape together enough to get a sandwich from the vending machine back at the Y.

Walking down the city street, I pass a public phone. My feet stop without my willing it. My hand reaches out to take the dull black receiver. ‘Who am I calling?’ I ask myself. A memory thrusts itself through the chaos in my head. It was a Christmas Eve years ago. I was huddled around a receiver on a cold night, wet from the falling rain. My sister’s surprised voice on the other end of the line calling my name. She cried. She begged me to come home, to tell her where I was. Before I hung up, she told me her husband was being transferred. She gave me the new address, the new number. I didn't write it down. Staring at the phone in my hand, I remember the name of the town. With a trembling finger, I dial information.

I sit on the bunk and stare at the number written on the back of Dr. Hewlett's list. So much has happened since I've been gone. So much time wasted. God, how could I have been so stupid! I'll never be able to tell Mom how sorry I am for the pain I caused. I'll never see her smile at me. I'll never hear her say my name again. I'm years too late for that. The tears fall unheeded.

The weight of the number in my fist is painfully heavy as I hug it against my body. It pulls me down until I'm bowed over it, my forehead on my knees. I'll never use it. There is no way he would want to hear from me. After all I've done . . . how could he not hate me? I hate myself. It would be better for everyone if I just disappear again.

My sister has probably talked to him already. Told him I called. Will he be waiting by the phone, expecting it to ring? Or will he refuse to answer it? I don't know which I'm afraid of more.

I gather my courage and walk down the hall to the pay phone. My hands are shaking so badly I drop the coins. I drop to my knees, scrambling after them. Fumbling, I scoop them up, counting and recounting them, suddenly terrified that I've lost one. I crawl back up the wall and manage to drop the coins into the slot. I dial the number my sister gave me. It's an eternity before someone picks up. An unfamiliar voice answers. I have to clear my throat before I can force the words out of my dry mouth.

"I'd like to speak to General Hammond, please. Tell him it’s his son, John."

**The End**

  


* * *

> July 5, 2001  
>  © The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp.  
> The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters  
> who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names,   
> titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television,   
> Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd.   
> Partnership.  
> This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and   
> solely meant for entertainment.   
> All other characters, the story idea and the story itself   
> are the sole property of the author.   
> 

* * *

  



End file.
